Invention, His Mother Said
by schnook
Summary: He is she. She is he. It's a simple formula, but it's the one that provides the answers. 2/5


**Title: Invention, His Mother Said**

**Show: Kimi Ni Todoke**

**Pairing: Kento/Ayane**

**Summary: He is she. She is he. It's a simple formula, but it's the one that provides the answers. 2/5**

**Warnings (?): For **_**bells-mannequin**_, **who requested this pairing – hope you like it, dear! (Or tolerate it, at least ;) )**

**-x-x-x-**

Kento's mother had hands that seemed to stretch on and on for years and years.

She had been a seamstress before wedding his father. She was a delicate looking woman, much like a wilting lily; pale and tall and weak and dignified. But her hands – her strong, calloused hands were rough and strong and everlasting, cut and bandaged like any workman's. After the wedding, she became a wife, a mother, and found that her hands were almost incapable of containing so much joy.

Kento inherited his mother's hands. Kento inherited his father's eyes.

Above all, Kento had inherited the concept; no, the _ideal_ of creation. The promise of construction, of art, of advancement, of beauty. The glorious tool of mankind; the hands – the very symbol of new life. His father watched American football. But his mother – the glorious woman – watched the world. She sat by the window still, fingers pricked, idly gazing out to a scene that culminated change as the young blonde toddler cried out above the constant blur of the television.

In truth, he is his mother's child.

(_I am Heathcliff.)_

He underlines the words, because they identify this feeling. This possession. And in turn, that what is possessed. He is his mother. She lives on in him, like warm rushing blood.

Now, standing in the sunshine of Japan's last summer afternoon, Kento wants to create something once more: a homage. A declaration. A masterpiece.

Or it might be something far simpler, he realises. Maybe he just wants to _create_ for the sake of it. Perhaps that is how he differs from his mother – she had always been an idealist, looking steadily into the distance, smiling slightly as is she knew the poetry of right and wrong. He sees her wan face with that twisted curve to her mouth, as if debating each and every passing minute.

Instead, he looks down, craving detail and the whimsical and the temporary enjoyment of time. No real goal, no real dreams – just his own self standing in limbo, waiting for something miraculous. He does not live as she lived, but he likes to think he does, in a way.

He likes to think of his hands as her hands. Just that is enough.

He knows it's wrong, but he can't help but wish to create something that will only live to disappear again.

Something like love.

**-x-x-x-**

He likes Sawako.

It's no secret – he boasts of it to his classmates, as if it were some great achievement. There's no real egotism in his declarations, only a sweet, naive kind of pride in himself. Besides, who else would dare to find the light in something so dark? Light shines from him, illuminating even the darkest of corners. He likes it when she smiles. He likes it when she eagerly speaks to him. He likes it when she pushes her hair behind her ears. He likes it when she's happy.

In a way, liking Sawako comes easily to him. It descends upon him like a great calm, wrapping him in complacency. He feels her settle in his palms, and everything is natural and dormant and sleepy.

Sometimes, he imagines himself stealing her away from under Mr Lively's nose. And then he grins, because it would be as if he were finally able to settle into a deep sleep.

(He's not even afraid.)

He knows he is capable of it.

But his blood beats away at him from the inside, turning on him, yearning for excitement and difficulty and pilgrimage.

He sees his mother's wan face.

**-x-x-x-**

He likes Ayane.

It's a secret. And it's as difficult as hell, because Ayane is as difficult as hell, and sometimes it feels as though hell has relocated and settled itself comfortably on his doorstep.

**-x-x-x-**

She's in the sunshine.

It doesn't suit her, he thinks.

Her face is too sharp, too shrewd for something so softening as a warm gold wash. Her hair doesn't glisten or shine, but seems to fights back angrily, turning all hues of fire and dynamite and hatred. She isn't beautiful in the sun; not even pretty. She's gazing off into the distance, hands folded neatly in her lap, one step ahead of everyone around her but at the same time so devastatingly human it hurts.

She's thinking, he knows.

She knows he's thinking.

He teases her, sometimes (it's always just in jest, he constantly reminds himself). Just to throw her off guard, or get a glimpse of something he shouldn't have seen. It's exhilarating, much like teasing a pitbull. There will always be consequences.

But he's never lived for the future.

He wanted to create her, to take her in his hands and make something devastating. Mold her, like a potter with clay. He wants to be the first to finally, finally make her possessable. He's not sure if it's love, infatuation of fascination. But his blood pulses for the first time in years, and there's freedom in it.

She's awaiting rebirth.

**-x-x-x-**

**Short, I know.**

**This pairing was fun, as I'd never really considered it (only just finished the manga this morning – finally. Let the heavens rejoice.)**

**I should really stop making up false histories for characters. I get confused watching the show, thinking something I made up was actually cannon. Weird.**

***"I am Heathcliff" – Cathy, ****Wuthering Heights****, Bronte**

**Want a specific pairing for no. 3/5? Leave it in a review or PM. If you fancy, feel free to give a note on how you'd like it done. I'm just here for your satisfaction, baby.**

**(I get all my lines from prostitutes. What of it?)**

**x Schnook**


End file.
